


Save It For The Bedroom

by calathea



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-23
Updated: 2009-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:49:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calathea/pseuds/calathea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bob and Patrick bond in the face of adversity, Warped Tour and sappy bandmates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save It For The Bedroom

**Author's Note:**

> I blame bexless, who made me write this story and was cheerleader, beta, and all round fangirl-on-the-spot for it. Thanks to bayleaf for a super quick American pick. I apologize to everyone unreservedly for the fail!poem.

By the end of day four of the 2005 Warped Tour Patrick had already argued with every member of his band at least twice, ripped the seat of his favorite jeans after sitting on the fender of a shitty van, had three separate arguments with catering over whether or not bacon was an acceptable part of a vegetarian menu, given up on being vegetarian and eaten four bacon cheeseburgers, and discovered that Bob Bryar was fated to be his new best friend.

Patrick had been touring off and on for years, so none of these events were surprising to him, except for the last thing. That came about partly because Pete and Mikey Way were already joined at the hip (and several other body parts, but Patrick was repressing those memories) by the time the tour rolled out of Columbus after the first show, so Patrick had an unexpected vacancy for the position of best friend. The other reason was best explained by their first real conversation, which took place on the second night of the tour:

* * *

**Day Two: Milwaukee, WI**

Patrick, in exile from the FOB bus, had seated himself on a plastic chair on a narrow strip of grass not far from where the bus was parked. He'd been kicked out for being an asshole, and was not in the mood for any of the eighteen parties in full swing all over the Warped campground. He'd been sitting there for maybe ten minutes, muttering grumpily to himself and kicking at the ground hard enough to scatter tiny pebbles and raise puffs of dust from the dry ground, when the door of the MCR bus opened and Bob Bryar stumbled down the stairs as if he'd been pushed, swearing.

"And don't come back until you have some romance in your soul!" someone shouted after him.

The door closed in Bob's face. "Let me in!" he yelled, hammering on the door. When this had no effect he stabbed at the keypad that operated the lock. "You fuckers! When did you change the code?"

A window opened. "You can't come back in until you take it back," said Gerard, poking his head out.

"But you _can't have_ four anniversaries a year," Bob gritted out. "The whole point of anniversaries is that they happen _once a year_. Now are you going to let me back in or do I have to beat you to death with a cymbal?"

There was the sound of scuffling and a high-pitched giggle from the bus, and Gerard's head disappeared from view. The window slammed shut.

Bob banged his fist against the door a few more times and let out a wordless yell.

There was a long pause. The door did not open.

Finally, after Bob had given up on making the door open using only the power of his mind, he turned and stomped purposefully towards the chair where Patrick was sitting. Apparently noticing that it was occupied for the first time, he slowed down and glared at Patrick.

Patrick cleared his throat nervously, and resettled his hat so his face was in deeper shadow. "Uh," he said. "Hi."

"You're in my chair," Bob growled.

Patrick crossed his arms. "I got here first," he said, irritably.

Bob loomed over him.

Patrick fidgeted with his hat again but kept his seat.

"Fine," said Bob, finally. "I'm going to smoke."

"Whatever," said Patrick, crossing his arms again.

Bob sat down on a tree trunk a few feet away and lit a cigarette. Somewhere in the distance there was the sort of loud burst of laughter and cheering that meant that someone had just courted death by stupidity and survived.

Bob blew out a long breath clouded by smoke. "What are you doing out here anyway?" he asked, after another long silence broken only by muffled laughter from the one of the nearest buses. "I thought you singers worried about your voices and the night air and all that shit."

Patrick looked at his hands, then at Bob. "I got thrown out of our bus after I tried to toss Joe's cellphone out of a window," he admitted.

Bob took another drag of his cigarette. "That's all?" he asked, sounding amused.

"Joe was maybe still holding it at the time," Patrick said.

Bob snorted.

Patrick thought about Bob's rapid departure from the MCR bus and decided to offer a few more details. "He was doing that thing with his girlfriend, the no-_you_-hang-up-first-no-_you_ thing."

"For how long?" Bob asked, in a tone that suggested he was all too familiar with the phenomenon.

"Twelve minutes and thirty-nine seconds," Patrick said, grimly.

"Ah," said Bob, and they lapsed into the silence of men who find themselves in perfect accord.

Bob had smoked his cigarette almost down to the filter when the door to the FOB bus opened with a hiss of hydraulics and Mikey Way ambled out, Pete following close behind with his fingers tangled in Mikey's belt loops. "I wish you didn't have to go," Pete was saying. "You'll be so far away."

Patrick rolled his eyes.

Mikey leaned in and whispered something, and Pete let loose his stupid _hee-haw_ of a laugh even as he let his hand dip to Mikey's ass.

Patrick winced and looked away. Bob was apparently attempting to grind his cigarette butt into non-existence in the dirt.

There was more giggling and suggestive rustling noises from over by the FOB bus door, and then light footsteps as Mikey crossed the thirty feet of space that separated the buses belonging to the two bands. When Patrick risked a glance over, Pete was standing in the patch of light cast by the open door of the bus, watching Mikey leave. Mikey had paused in the doorway of his own bus looking back. Patrick was relieved that the dim light and the distance meant he really couldn't make out their expressions.

Bob stood up. "I'll probably be able to get in while Gerard's distracted," he said.

"Yeah," said Patrick. He glanced back at Pete, who was sitting on the steps of the FOB bus gazing after Mikey. "I'd better go too."

They exchanged a look of sympathy and commiseration, and Patrick squared his shoulders. He'd barely taken five steps towards the bus when Pete caught sight of him. "Patrick!" he said, "Where have you been? I want to talk to you about lyrics for a love song."

Pete pulled a sheaf of paper from his back pocket and stuffed it into Patrick's hand. Patrick decided he would try very hard not to think about what the sticky substance smeared on the paper was, and also made a mental note to boil his hand at the first available opportunity. He turned around for a second and watched Bob follow Mikey onto their bus, feeling like he was watching the last sane person in the universe vanish from view, and allowed Pete pulled him into their own bus.

* * *

**Day 4: St Louis, MO**

**You have 1 new text message from: BobBryar**

anniversary debate again on bus tonight. f &amp; g now trying to figure out dates of every 1st time. f weirdly specific with dates/times. afraid he might be keeping records for all time greatest rankings for his sex life. was asked by g for opinion on how to celebrate anni of first BJs. have thought of 2 new ways to kill someone with cymbal that probably won't damage the cymbal.

* * *

**Day 10: Las Cruces, NM**

Both My Chem and Fall Out Boy played early in Las Cruces. In the early evening, when it was actually cool enough to walk around again, Patrick wandered past the MCR bus a couple of times, half-hoping to find Bob. Finally, he acknowledged that he was, in fact, many years too old to be employing the middle school trick of "I happened to be passing... eighteen times" and walked determinedly over to knock on the door.

The door opened almost immediately, and Bob emerged, looking wild-eyed. He caught Patrick's wrist and began to walk away hurriedly. "Quick," he hissed, "Come on, move it, Stump."

Patrick stumbled and protested, even though he was already grinning as he was towed along: "What? Bob!"

Bob hissed for him to shut up, skirted around another bus, looked furtively left and right, and then dashed over to a scarred old picnic table set to one side of the area where the buses were parked. He ducked into the shadow of a tree and sighed with relief.

Patrick was laughing in earnest now. "Dude, should I be look-out?" he said, dropping into a seat at the picnic table next to Bob. "Are the fuzz after us?"

Bob shot him a look that meant that Patrick wasn't as funny as he thought he was. Patrick laughed some more anyway.

"You mind?" Bob said, after Patrick had subsided a moment later. He held up a cigarette and his lighter.

Patrick shrugged. "S'fine," he said.

"I need the calming effect," Bob said, seriously. When he lit the cigarette and took his first long drag of smoke, his face really did seem to relax.

"Dude," Patrick said. "What's with you today?"

"Gerard decided it was time to have A Talk with Mikey," Bob said, in a tone of doom.

Patrick had no difficulty recognizing Gerard's capital letters. "A talk? About wha-- Oh. Pete." he said.

Bob sucked in another lungful of smoke. "Gerard wanted someone there while he did it," Bob said, his eyes closed. "Ray locked himself in the back. Frank fucked off somewhere with some guy who claimed to be his cousin. I think Frank hired him. I'm arranging for both of them to be accidentally run over by a bus tomorrow."

Patrick was giggling, and Bob opened his eyes long enough to look at him murderously. "Was it really that bad?" Patrick asked, aiming for a sympathetic tone of voice.

Bob didn't seem to appreciate the effort. "I should throw you in there and lock the door," he threatened. "See how you like being trapped with the Way brothers while they discuss Mikey's love-life through the medium of the last three issues of _Green Lantern_ and vague hand-gestures."

"Green Lantern?" Patrick asked, unable to keep his voice steady. "Really?"

Bob's lips turned up at the corners for the first time. "Way brothers," he countered succinctly, and Patrick leaned back against the table and laughed until his sides hurt.

"Is there no-one sane in your band?" Patrick said, still breathless with laughter.

"Let's see: Gerard and Frank, obviously not. Mikey, no," Bob said.

"Ray?" Patrick offered. "He seems pretty normal."

Bob rolled his eyes. "Ray just looks at me like I kick kittens for fun and says it's not appropriate to comment on the way people choose to express their emotions."

Patrick stared at him. "... really?" he said, disbelievingly.

Bob nodded, and flicked ash from his cigarette.

"Um," said Patrick. "Brian?"

"Have you ever heard Brian tell the story of how he came to be the My Chem manager?" Bob asked, grimly.

There was a long pause. "Yeah, okay," Patrick said, finally. "I can see that."

"What about your guys?" Bob said, squinting up at the evening sun.

Patrick shrugged. "Well, obviously, there's Pete," he said.

They both spent a moment in silent contemplation of Pete Wentz.

"Right," said Bob. "And the other two?"

"Joe was warped by Pete at an early age," Patrick said. "Andy writes bad poetry to his 'friend' back home in Milwaukee."

He made the little quotation mark gestures at Bob with his fingers.

Bob stared at him. "I don't believe you," he said. "Hurley?"

Patrick grimaced. "_Bad_ poetry," he emphasized.

Bob shook his head, but before Patrick could explain further they were interrupted by Gerard, who appeared around the corner of the nearest bus and then homed in on Bob. He looked gloomy, kicking disconsolately at pebbles on the ground as he walked.

"Hi guys," he said, with a sad smile. He was visibly drooping.

"Hey Gerard," Patrick said. "How's things?"

Behind Gerard, Bob widened his eyes and made urgent throat-cutting gestures.

Gerard sighed. "They grow up so fast," he said, tragically, and slumped against the table. "And his opinions about Green Lantern are _so wrong_."

"I'm, uh, sorry to hear that?" said Patrick, doubtfully.

Gerard stared at him earnestly. "Well," he said, "What do _you_ think about the changes in political tone between the Gold and Silver period?"

Patrick blinked. Luckily this seemed to be answer enough for Gerard, who embarked upon a comprehensive review of the Green Lantern past, present and future. Bob laid his head on the table with a pronounced thud, but Gerard just patted his arm and kept talking.

* * *

**Day 19: Long Beach, CA**

**Picture Message sent to: BobBryar**

Proof! Found on the floor next to Hurley's bunk this afternoon. Definitely his handwriting.

(Poem for M

I really miss you so  
But my cellphone battery is too low  
Cannot call you to say  
You really are my favorite lay  
Now I have to go ~~on stage~~ play (beige? mage? wage?)  
So wish me lots of luck  
Cannot wait until we fuck  
Again!)  


* * *

**Day 24: Rest Day, Vancouver, BC**

Ray answered his cellphone with a cheery: "Hi Patrick! I'm kind of in the middle of something, so I'm going to pass you to Bob, 'kay?"

"Um," said Patrick, but there were already weird groping noises coming from the phone as it was handed over. He could heard Ray saying something that sounded a lot like "No, no, I kind of want the caramel colored fur. Yeah. That one."

Bob came on the line. "Hi," he said. "Please tell me I am urgently needed back at the hotel. Please."

"Is the stuffing hypoallergenic?" Ray said loudly in the background. "You're sure?"

"Uh, not as far as I know," Patrick said. "I think mostly people are asleep."

Bob sighed, and lapsed into silence.

"Oh, man there are too many choices for the nose." Ray was saying. "Maybe this one, I don't know. Bob, what do you think? This one, or this one?"

Bob grunted something, and Ray must have moved away, as although Patrick could hear his voice, he could no longer make out the words.

"Bob, where the _hell_ are you?" Patrick asked, his imagination failing him.

"At the mall," said Bob, grimly. "We're building a bear."

"Uh," said Patrick. "Say again?"

Bob sounded, if possible, even more morose when he repeated: "We're building a bear. For Ray's girlfriend. It's going to have a Mountie uniform."

Patrick choked on a laugh. "Shut up," said Bob.

"Oh, you can get a _wish_ embroidered on the little heart that goes inside," Ray exclaimed, in the distance. "I want that, is it extra?"

"Wait," Bob said, and obviously tried to muffle the phone somehow. "No, I don't need any help, thanks. I'm with him. No, I don't want a bear too. No, really. Thank you. Yeah, I'll let you know if I change my mind. Thanks."

"Sorry," he said a moment later. "They really, really want you to build a bear in here."

"Tell them you hate bears," Patrick suggested.

"Right now, I really do hate bears," Bob said, grumpily.

There was a shriek in the background. "Mommy!" a small child wailed. "That man said he hates bears!" The last word was stretched out in a long sob of unhappiness.

"Oh God," said Bob, despairingly, while Patrick howled with laughter at the other end of the phone. "I don't hate bears, kid, I just don't want to build one, okay?"

The kid carried on crying.

"Christ," said Bob. "I have to get out of here. Toro! Are you nearly done?"

"They're embroidering the heart for me," Patrick heard Ray say. "What did Patrick want?"

"I don't know, he was too busy getting me to say I hate bears," Bob said.

"You hate _bears_?" Ray said, sounding aghast. "How can you hate bears? That's not right. Does Gerard know?"

"Gerard turns all the bears he's given into recruits for his zombie bear army," Bob retorted, exasperated. "And I don't... Look, forget it. Patrick, what did you want?"

"To ask if Toro will play for us while Joe is in Chicago," Patrick said, though his laughter. "And if you'll help us out too."

"Yeah, I will, of course," Bob said, and then relayed the question to Ray, who agreed immediately, provided Patrick found some time for them to practice together. "And if Bob admits he doesn't hate bears," Ray added, loud enough for Patrick to hear.

"For God's sake, I don't fucking hate bears!" Bob roared.

There was a strange hush in the background, and then Patrick could hear a child exclaiming, "The mean man said a bad word! Mommy! Did you hear him? Mommy!"

"You're going to get thrown out of the Build-a-Bear store," Patrick told Bob. "That's a new low even for Warped Tour."

Bob made an incomprehensible growling noise and hung up the phone.

* * *

**Day 28: Bozeman, MT**

**From**: Bob &lt; bcbryar@mcr...&gt;  
**To**: Patrick &lt; pattycakes@fob...&gt;  
**Subject**: fucking rose petals everywhere  


number of roses decapitated by G for romantic anniversary rose petals on frank's bunk: 24  
amount of pollen in the bus after roses shredded: about 10lbs  
number of people in MCR bus allergic to pollen: 3 (me, mikey, jimthebusdriver)  
near-miss bus wrecks because of jimthebusdriver sneezing: 3  
number of times i have sneezed tonight: 49584231341234  
number of kleenex left on the bus: 0  
number of rose stalks G had left over after removing rose petals: 24  
G's really smart place to hide them after frank walked in while he was still holding them: under newspaper on front lounge sofa  
minutes between ray getting on the bus and ray sitting on 24 rose stalks (with thorns): 1  
volume of ray's screaming: dialled up to 11  
number of thorns i had to remove from ray's ass: 7  
number of minutes i actually wanted to spend that close to ray's ass: ZERO!!!!  
number of loud orgasms had by f &amp; g so far: i only wish i didn't know  


* * *

**Day 34: Cleveland, OH**

By the time they were back in Ohio the idea of a regular sleeping pattern had receded to a distant dream for Patrick. Pete, of course, had never had one, and therefore had no respect for the sanctity of nap-time, not even when that nap was accompanied by the bliss of a hotel room, a real bed, and air conditioning so ferocious you had to put on a sweater when you came into the room.

"Patrick." A piercing whisper broke into Patrick's drowsy contemplation of the inside of his eyelids. "Pattycakes. Patrick. Patrick. Patrick."

"Fuck off, Pete," Patrick said, refusing to open his eyes.

Pete ignored him and the bed dipped. Something tugged at Patrick's blanket, and he clutched it more tightly.

"Patrick," Pete whined. "Patrick! Let me in."

"No, fuck off," Patrick said, obstinately. "You smell."

There was a hurt, fidgety silence beside him. Patrick cursed the part of him that was apologetic enough to uncurl his fingers just the right fraction so that Pete's next tug pulled them out of his grasp.

Pete climbed into bed beside him. Patrick sighed and let him re-arrange the covers over them both, resigning himself to his fate.

"Mikey doesn't want to meet my parents in Chicago," Pete said, after a minute. "Even after I promised not to introduce him as the future Mrs. Wentz."

Patrick longed for a hat to pull over his eyes. And ear-plugs. And to be part of a different band.

"Do you think it's because I'm too clingy?" Pete asked, cuddling up close beside Patrick and pressing his nose into Patrick's shoulder. "I don't think I'm too clingy. I give people plenty of space."

He pulled the covers further over to his part of the bed, leaving one of Patrick's knees out in the cold. "There's a lot of people coming to see Bob too, I guess. And there's going to be a million people around us, with our families and friends and everything. Maybe he just thinks it would be weird to be with all kinds of people he doesn't know. I get that."

He sighed. "I was maybe kind of a dick to him about it though," he said, and Patrick was almost, _almost_ going to open his eyes and say something in response to Pete's small, embarrassed voice, when Pete ruined it. "But then, on the other hand, make-up sex!"

He wriggled happily, and then hugged Patrick. "Dude, thanks," he said, and then let go and climbed out of bed. He took the blanket with him. Patrick rolled onto his side and stared as Pete collapsed in the second bed, curled up under both blankets and appeared to fall asleep instantly.

"Bastard!" he said. Pete snored lightly back at him. Patrick shivered. He tugged at the blanket Pete had stolen. Pete slapped his hands away viciously, rolled over, and started snoring again.

Patrick stared at him, and then, grumpily, began pulling on some clothes. He didn't even try to stop the door from slamming as he left the room. In the hotel lobby, he tried first Joe and then Andy's phones. Both calls went to voicemail.

He kicked a luggage trolley as he passed it, and was still sitting down nursing his toe when My Chem, minus Ray, arrived in the lobby.

"Patrick," Bob said, urgently. "I was just coming to get you, let's go."

"I..." Patrick said, confused. "You were?"

Frank and Gerard broke off from what looked like a serious, low-voiced argument to stare at him. Mikey did not look up from his phone.

"Yes," Bob said, staring at Patrick and nodding his head pointedly.

"Oh," said Patrick. "Uh, yeah. Well, here I am."

Bob nodded again, and waved to the rest of his band. "Later," he said, and rushed Patrick out of the front door of the hotel and into the street.

"What the hell?" said Patrick, amused.

"Keep walking," Bob hissed. "One of them might come after us."

Patrick turned back. There was no sign of Frank or either of the Way brothers. "Why are we running away from your band?"

"Mikey is moping over Pete and wants to know what I think he should do," Bob said. "Just so you know, Wentz may have to die if he keeps it up."

"Killing Pete would probably make Mikey mope even more," Patrick pointed out. "Besides I think Pete is going to apologize."

Bob stopped at a Don't Walk sign, and took a nervous glance back along the street towards the hotel. "Even worse, now they'll make up," he groaned, and marched Patrick across the road even though the lights hadn't changed. "If that wasn't bad enough, Frank and Gee were arguing about _fate_ and _destiny_," he said.

"Really?" said Patrick, surprised. "It sounded like they were talking about the mulligan rule."

Bob just looked at him pityingly.

"Oh," said Patrick. "Is that bad?"

Bob sighed. "They'll have to make up afterwards, too," he said, gloomily.

Patrick exchanged looks with him.

They walked along another block.

"Where are we going, by the way?" Patrick said, wiping the sweat from his forehead and resettling his hat so it shaded his face a little more.

Bob shrugged. "I have no idea," he said. "It was just an excuse. We can go back if you like, they've probably gone up to their rooms now."

"Oh," Patrick said again.

"Unless," Bob stopped walking and looked at him. "D'you want to go to the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame? I don't know how exciting it is, and we couldn't stay too long..." he trailed off.

Patrick blinked at him. "Seriously?"

"Sure, why not?" Bob said, shrugging.

Patrick beamed at him. "You're going to have to pay, I didn't bring my wallet."

Bob shrugged. "I can live with that," he said and went to flag down a cab.

* * *

**Day 37: Minneapolis, MN**

Found stuck to MCR bus refrigerator door:

(PLACES YOU SHOULD NOT BE HAVING MAKE UP SEX  
(PART 2!!!)

\- in the front lounge while the label guy is in the back studio  
\- in the space between the buses during the day  
\- in the bathroom while the bus is moving (no-one wants to see your faucet shaped bruises either)  
\- In a bunk of someone not having sex with you (not an invitation!!!)  
\- Anywhere near the guitars (or drums)  
\- On or near my favorite hoodie  
\- anywhere near me when i am talking to my mom  


Signed,  
PMS  
BCB)  


* * *

**Day 47: Atlanta, GA**

Patrick watched the scene unfolding outside the My Chem bus from with a strange feeling of deja vu.

"There's no such thing as a six week anniversary," Bob was saying, loudly.

"There is if I say there is," Mikey said, not even looking up from his phone.

Gerard was huddled in a square foot of shade by the front wheel of the bus. "There is if he says there is," he told Bob, folding his arms.

Mikey sighed loudly and wandered off, still engrossed in his text message. Patrick watched him go, wincing at his near-miss collisions with a (stationary) bus, some guy carrying a ladder, and a small dog.

Patrick wandered over to where Bob and Gerard were still arguing. "I know Mikey's having sex with Wentz, but I don't want to _know_ Mikey's having pretend-anniversary sex with Wentz in our back lounge," Bob was saying, waving his arms around.

Gerard cringed every time Bob said "sex" and "Mikey". Patrick decided it was time to intervene.

"Hey," he said.

Gerard squinted up at him with a suspicious look. "Are you here to yell at me about the details of my little brother's sex life too?" he asked.

"I hadn't planned to," Patrick said. "Are you going to ask me why Pete was running around with his dick hanging out last night? Because, dude, I really don't know, and if one more person asks me I'll punch them."

Gerard shuddered. "I am never ever going to ask you about the location of Pete's dick," he said, firmly.

Patrick nodded. Bob looked mutinous, like he was about to say something horrifying about the presence of Pete's dick on his bus. Patrick interrupted before Bob even finished drawing a breath to speak.

"I actually came over to talk about drumming with you guys this afternoon. I really don't think--" Patrick started.

Gerard broke into his biggest, goofiest grin. "It's going to be so fucking badass," he said, gleefully.

"But, I--" Patrick protested.

Bob rolled his eyes and reached out to pull Patrick's hat right down over his face. "You're playing, shut up, you're going to be fine."

Patrick batted his hands away and resettled his hat. "But I haven't--" he tried again.

Gerard scrambled to his feet and grabbed Patrick into a hug. "Badass!" he said again.

"Are we hugging Patrick now? Gimme," Frank said, appearing behind Bob along with Ray, Mikey and Pete. He swapped his cigarette to his other hand, pulled on Patrick's hoodie until Gerard let him go and then hugged Patrick until he squeaked.

Ray and Mikey were laughing as Patrick was passed to them to hug. Gerard hugged him again, and then let go. Patrick stumbled back a step and almost stepped on Bob's feet. He turned around and there was a brief awkward pause. Patrick and Bob looked at one another.

"Hands off my Patrick," Pete broke in to say, with a mock-scowl. He wrapped his arms around Patrick and squeezed him tight.

"He needs his ribs intact if he's going to play the drums," Bob said critically, accepting a cigarette from Frank. Patrick extracted himself from Pete's arms and pulled his hoodie back into place.

"Nah," said Frank, dismissively, which started off a round of competitive Injuries/Illnesses I Have Played Through stories that lasted almost until it was time for Fall Out Boy to go warm up for their set.

Patrick forgot about it until later, in the laughing chaos behind the stage after the My Chem set, Bob hugged Patrick hard and said: "I told you!"

"Ribs!" Patrick said, breathlessly, a huge grin on his face.

"Who needs them?" Bob said, but he let Patrick go and went to pull Frank down from the rigging he'd climbed up onto.

* * *

**Day 50: Orlando, FL**

**You have 1 new text message from: BobBryar**

did you just throw joes phone into our bus? it landed in gs coffee &amp; he was already traumatized once by disney 2day. hope you can sing our songs if we have to replace him 2night.

* * *

**Day 54: Washington, DC**

They probably would have gotten away with it, Patrick decided later, if they hadn't pushed their luck in the last week. It seemed like both bands had half the people they knew travelling with them for the final few days of the tour. Andy had his "friend" out with him on the bus, Joe's girlfriend was meeting them in various cities, and family and friends were always stopping by the My Chem bus.

Even with all the comings and goings though, they thought they'd found a quiet hour or two during the evening in Washington when the rest of My Chem, plus Pete, went out to dinner with a couple of Mikey's friends. Luckily, they were still only kissing when the bus door opened with a hiss and Frank barrelled in, giggling. He came to a sudden stop, staring at Bob and Patrick. The rest of the group, coming on board after him, stumbled into him, and the bus was suddenly full of swearing, flailing bodies.

Patrick unclenched his fingers from Bob's hoodie and carefully straightened his hat. "Uh," he said. "Hi."

Frank was staring at them. "How the _hell_ did you keep that secret?" he asked, incredulously.

"Keep what secret?" said Ray, who was still half way out the door. "Can you guys move so I can come in?"

Mikey was looking from Patrick to Bob and back again. "I knew it. Bob's been so much less grumpy this tour. Everyone owes me so much money now." He pulled out his phone. Bob tried to grab it but there wasn't really room to stand up. Mikey twisted out of the way of his grabby hands and placidly carried on typing in a text message.

"How long?" Gerard wanted to know. He was grinning at them both delightedly.

"Since Cleveland," Patrick said, at the same time as Bob said: "Since the beginning of the tour."

Patrick turned to look at Bob. So did everyone else. "What?" Bob said.

"What?" said Patrick, feeling his face flush pink.

"What's going on?" said Ray, plaintively. "Seriously, will you let me in already?"

Patrick looked away from Bob and waved a hand between them. "This part," he said, with a grin. "Since Cleveland."

"Why _Cleveland_?" Frank broke in. He pulled Gerard to sit down next to him on the other sofa. Pete still stood, frozen, in the entry to the lounge area.

Patrick shrugged. "He paid seventeen dollars so I could see John Lennon's glasses," he said, and smirked at Bob. Bob looked embarrassed.

Pete finally came out of his stupor. "You didn't tell me," he said, pointing an accusing finger at Patrick. "You know you have to tell me. How else am I going to know when I have to do the threatening best friend thing?"

Patrick crossed his arms. "Maybe that's why I didn't tell you," he told Pete. "To save you the embarrassment of standing there trying to threaten Bob Bryar."

Everyone looked from Pete to Bob and back again. Frank frowned. "Little guys can still kick ass, you know," he complained. Gerard patted his knee.

"You threatened Mikey," Pete said, with narrowed eyes.

Everyone turned to look at Mikey. Mikey kept typing, until the expectant silence got to him. "What?" he said, looking up.

"Did Patrick threaten you?" Gerard asked.

Mikey cocked his head thoughtfully. "I guess he tried," he said, after a moment. "But then we started talking about Black Sabbath." He went back to his phone.

"You have opinions on Black Sabbath?" Bob asked Patrick.

Patrick shrugged at him. "I have opinions on everyone," he pointed out.

"Would I _agree_ with your opinions on Black Sabbath?" Bob asked.

"Um," said Patrick, feeling obscurely guilty. "Maybe?"

Bob squinted at him. "We're talking about that later," was all he said, though.

Gerard made a sort of squeaky, happy noise. "Okay, obviously I don't approve of them not telling us," he said, "But they are really fucking cute."

Patrick felt another wave of color flood his face.

"Everyone thinks it's cute," Mikey said. He held up his phone so Frank could read it. Frank looked at the message on the screen and laughed.

"Oh god," said Patrick, noticing that Pete had his phone out now too.

"Andy says if you need lube he has a tube he hasn't opened stashed in the spare bunk," Pete reported, confirming Patrick's worst fears.

Patrick pulled his hat over his eyes and moaned.

"I guess I'm just going to sit down here on the stairs," Ray's voice floated up to them. "Until someone feels like letting me into _my own bus_ already."

Bob suddenly stood up and, crossing his arms, glared at his band. "Okay, well, now you know, but," he paused, and stared pointedly at Gerard. "There will be no comments on stage."

Gerard stared back with big hurt eyes. Bob looked unnerved for a moment, but did not back down.

"There will be no condom bouquets," he said, making eye contact with each member of his band. "No cake with 'Congratulations, you got laid!' on it, and under no circumstances will Frank sign me up for the Society of the Admirers of Gentlemen of Short Stature newsletter. It took me six fucking months to get off their mailing list last time."

Pete opened his mouth, so Patrick pointed a finger at him. "You will not blog about it cryptically, I'm not singing a song about it and there will absolutely, definitely not be a commemorative hoodie," he said.

Pete looked crestfallen. Patrick refused to feel bad about that.

Bob sat back down again, and put his arm around Patrick as if to prove a point. Pete finally came into the lounge and went to sit next to Mikey, who automatically moved to make room for him. He was staring at Patrick in a way that suggested he would demand excruciating levels of detail later, and anything Patrick didn't tell him, he would make up for himself.

They all sat and stared at one another for another moment, until Ray's voice broke in again, sounding forlorn. "You know if you leave me out here all night I will be really, _really_ pissed, right?"

* * *

**Day 55: Boston, MA**

**You have 1 new text message from: BobBryar**

have told f 8 times we do not want a copy of his all time greatest sex/anniversary spreadsheet for our own use but if he still sends it DELETE IMMEDIATELY. he does not know how to erase his own info and once you have seen it you can never unsee it.

* * *

**Day 58: Asbury Park, NJ**

The last day of Warped was insane. The whole of MCR was side-stage for the Fall Out Boy set, Mikey and Ray coming on to play with them at the end for _Saturday_. Patrick couldn't hear a note of the song, and wasn't sure whether the crowds were screaming more for Pete and Joe, stage-diving with abandon, or more because they were on My Chem's home turf. He thought he was doing pretty well despite the distractions until he caught sight of Bob standing, arms folded, side-stage. Bob saw him looking, grinned slyly, and licked at his lip ring. Patrick stumbled over his lyrics, played six wrong notes in succession and swore vengeance.

My Chem went on late. Patrick waited backstage until they were ready to go on, telling Ray's girlfriend about Ray and Bob getting thrown out of the Build-A-Bear store in Vancouver and trying not to smirk too hard at Pete talking to Mikey's family. It seemed like most of New Jersey had turned out to hear My Chem play, and the noise was deafening even before the band ran out onto the stage. Patrick wasn't sure Frank was going to survive the show: if his on-stage flailing didn't kill him, Bob might for the scuff marks he left on Bob's bass within the first ten minutes. Unfortunately for Patrick, Bob's attention was focussed so intently on his drumming and on fending off Frank that Patrick didn't get a chance to distract him in revenge.

"Fucking spoilsport," Patrick said to Bob, under the cover of all the shrieking resulting from Gerard and Mikey being passed around a million 58-days-on-tour-smell resistant family members. "I'll get my own back."

Bob shrugged, grinning slyly. "You can try," he said.

Frank bounced past on the shoulders of some kind of relative who apparently got all the height genes in the family.

Patrick nudged Bob with his elbow. "You enjoy me trying too much," he told Bob.

Bob laughed, nodded, and then bent to kiss him. His skin was still hot and slick from performing, and his hair felt damp under Patrick's fingers.

There was a loud burst of coughing, and they broke apart to find the rest of My Chem staring at them with a range of vaguely horrified expressions.

"Fuck, you guys," Frank said, after a moment. "Save it for the bedroom, will you? We don't all want to see!"

* * *

**Day 59: Post-Warped**

**From**: Bob &lt; bcbryar@mcr...&gt;  
**To**: Patrick &lt; pattycakes@fob...&gt;  
**Subject**: FW: Welcome to the Society of the Admirers of Gentlemen of Short Stature (SAGSS)!

this means WAR!

* * *


End file.
